Superman
by Lemon Icee
Summary: In which Kirk is a good guy, Chekov loves comic books and McCoy just wants to be the hero for once. I'm terrible at summaries, I don't want to give anything away. No slash, rated T for some language.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** My first attempt at a ST fic longer than one chapter. This is just a little intro, barely any plot yet, but I wanted to test the waters. I'm still not entirely comfortable with these characters (if you have any suggests on how to make the characterizations better, PLEASE do tell), but I hope you enjoy!

* * *

It was his third cup of coffee, but no amount of caffeine could keep McCoy's eyes from itching with tiredness. His body was used to functioning on minimal sleep, but an all-nighter was still a strain. He had stayed up all night watching the kid.

Even now, though his vision was out of focus with tiredness, he stared at the young ensign who lay still in the bed in front of him. He was at his desk, a few yards from the patient's bed, his head resting in his hand and tilting ever more so that there was a decent chance he would fall asleep right there. But he forced himself awake, because Chekov's heart rate was still down and his blood pressure was too low and at any moment things could go very wrong.

Things had gone very wrong already. It had been Chekov's first ground mission and he had been so eager. McCoy still wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but he hardly wanted to think about it. All he needed to know was that Chekov had suffered some blunt force trauma to the head, a few severe gashes and a fractured shin bone. And that Jim had rescued him. Jim always did the rescuing.

A small moan wrenched McCoy from his thoughts and caused him to jerk his head up almost painfully. Rubbing his neck, he ran over to the bedside of the young ensign and checked his stats again. His heart rate had gone up marginally, and although McCoy was still not pleased with the blood pressure, it seemed stable. Chekov was awake.

"Keptain?" he muttered, blinking his eyes repeatedly in the dim light of the medic bay.

"He's not here kid, but you're lucky you are," McCoy said quietly, still fiddling with the machines hooked up to his patient.

Recognizing the voice, Chekov realized where he was before his eyes had adjusted to the light. He struggled to sit up, resting his back on the mass of pillows behind him.

"Is he alright?" he asked.

McCoy nodded, finally satisfied that Chekov wasn't in immediate danger and looking at him again. "You were the only one injured on that mission."

Chekov looked a little embarrassed. He sighed and allowed his shoulders to relax in defeat.

"I suppose I am not meant for missions," he said forlornly.

McCoy didn't really know what to say. There was a fierce, paternal voice in his head that wanted to say, 'no, you are not meant for missions, they're too fucking risky and you should stay in the ship where there is, at least, the illusion of safety'. Instead he swallowed a hard lump in his throat and avoided eye contact.

There was a woosh of doors sliding open and McCoy turned to see Kirk striding towards them. Chekov was craning his neck to see who was approaching, and as he caught sight of his captain his face broke into an easy smile. McCoy tried not to notice how Chekov's eyes seemed to brighten at Kirk's appearance.

"Chekov!" Kirk called out, walking to the side of the bed opposite McCoy and beaming. "Glad to see you're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Very fine, sir," Chekov said cheerfully, without a trace of the melancholy that he'd had moments ago.

"Good! I'm glad to hear it," he lowered himself onto his knees so that he was eye level with the ensign. "Look, I hope that you're not too discouraged by what happened."

Chekov opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it and closed it again, gazing sheepishly at Kirk.

"It could have happened to anyone; you didn't do anything wrong."

McCoy left Kirk to his conversation with Chekov, and wandered back into his office. It was now 1130 according to his watch, which meant he'd been awake for 27 hours. 10 of which had been solely devoted to making sure the kid survived the night.

And he still couldn't cheer him up like 5 seconds of Jim Kirk could.

McCoy collapsed into a lounge chair in the corner of his office, closing his eyes and ignoring the ache of bad posture. For some reason he wanted Chekov to look at him the same way he looked at Kirk. It was beyond admiration, it was…idolization. It was unadulterated trust, and McCoy had seen it only once before.

It was in the eyes of his baby girl the last time he had held her. She had gazed up at him in exactly the same way the day he left.

And he knew that she would never look at him like that again.

He longed to be able to earn that look.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Why does it take so long to get to real plot? Because I like writing stupid descriptions of characters' rooms that have no pertinence to where the story is going? Sorry about that, but I hope you enjoy anyway!

* * *

It was several hours later that McCoy finally woke up, easing himself out of the chair as a very sore back protested. Quickly reentering the waking world, he walked briskly out of his office to see how Chekov was doing. The young ensign was lying down now, but his eyes were wide open.

"How are you feeling?" McCoy asked. Chekov turned his head slightly to stare at the doctor who loomed over him. His mouth was slightly agape and his eyes seemed deadened.

"I do not feel bad," he said slowly. "I have counted the dots on the ceiling, calculated the average number of dots per tile, and have found the standard deviation from this mean for forty-three of the fifty-two tiles. Sir," he added.

McCoy gave a small chuckle.

"You are bored out of your mind, aren't you."

Chekov gave one, serious nod.

"Yes sir."

"Do you want me to get you, I don't know, a book or something?" He had no idea what teenage geniuses did for fun.

Chekov seemed hesitant, and a slight flush appeared on his cheeks.

"Well sir, there is...do you think you could go to my room, room 312? There is a box under my bed. If you could just…bring it here? I would be very glad, sir," he finished lamely.

McCoy tried not to look too incredulous. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions, but he knew what he kept in a box under the bed when he was seventeen, and it surely would have kept him entertained.

"Um, sure," He glanced once more at the monitors (everything stable).

"I'll get that. I'll be right back."

* * *

To Kirk, Hikaru Sulu's room felt more like a museum. Not only was it covered in trinkets and souvenirs but he had the strange sensation that he was definitely not allowed to touch. Which was hard to manage since there was more junk than space to move. There was art hanging on the walls next to photos of masked fencers, medallions from competitions and a framed Star Fleet Academy diploma (cum laude no less). On various shelves and on the single desk were stranger objects. Kirk couldn't figure out what they all were, but he recognized among them a signed baseball, a model of an Apollo spaceship and a neat stack of old fashioned CDs. And there were lots of plants.

Sitting awkwardly on the bed, surrounded by meticulously organized crap, Kirk waited for Sulu to get ready for their daily sparring session.

"So…you like plants?" Kirk asked uncomfortably. He was eyeing a thorny bush immediately to his right that he could have sworn was moving. It hadn't been that close a minute ago.

"Oh yeah, botany is kind of my hobby," Sulu called out from the closet, where he was changing.

"Hey, what's that thing?"

Sulu poked his head out of the closet.

"Which thing?" He asked, turning his head towards where Kirk was pointing.

It was a giant, crimson flag hanging elegantly on the wall across from the bed. Sulu grinned, walking out from the closet and pulling on a casual shirt.

"That's a _capote_, a dress cape." Sulu stood on tip-toes and unpinned the cape from the wall. With a flourish he donned it, causing it to billow around him impressively. It was made of very light, beautiful fabric, and the collar was encrusted with gems.

"I got it when I spent a summer in Barcelona. I thought for a while I might want to try being a matador," he looked a little sheepish at this admission.

Kirk was doubled up in laughter.

"Take it off, you look ridiculous!" He snatched at the flowing capote as Sulu gave him a scowl. Sulu unsnapped the collar, still glaring daggers, and placed it carefully on the bed.

"It would look way better on me, anyway," Kirk said grinning and snatching it up with relish. "I'm tall enough so it won't drag on the ground."

"Don't you dare touch that capote!" Sulu yelled, only half joking as Kirk prepared to try it on. "You have insulted the way of the matador, you are unworthy." He grabbed it out of Kirk's hands and held it protectively.

"Aw come on, I just want to see how it looks."

Sulu gave him a playful smile.

"I'll tell you what. If you manage to get in three touches today, I'll let you wear it. For a little while." He folded it neatly and tucked the coveted item under his arm.

"You're on," Kirk pounded Sulu on the back affably and the pair walked out towards the recreation room, swords in hand.

* * *

To McCoy, Pavel Chekov's room looked nothing like he'd expected. Well, he hadn't known what to expect, but it would never have been this. It was neat, with very little on the ground and the bed neatly made. That was all to be expected. But the walls were covered in grungy posters, each with a giant band name, a few smaller band names and a list of tour dates. The "San Francisco" location was circled in a red pen on each one. They were bands McCoy had never heard of, playing at venues he had never heard of. Based only on the appearance of the posters, McCoy guessed they were punk bands. But he knew very little about music, and could not for the life of him picture Chekov being interested in that sort of thing.

Still uneasy about the contents of the mystery box, but infinitely more curious seeing Chekov's apparent rebellious side, McCoy knelt down with a little less dignity than he would have liked and groped around under the bed.

His hand made contact with cardboard and he extracted the box. It was heavy, unlabeled and neatly folded so that the flaps did not open of their own accord. McCoy hoisted it into his arms and left the room.

He regretted acquiescing to Chekov's request immediately. Not only did it feel odd walking through crowded halls cradling a box filled with potentially (and probably) questionable materials, but McCoy soon realized that he was not as good in the upper arm strength department as he remembered. Goddammit if he was going to let a bunch of yeomen see him take a breather though. Palms sweating and arms shaking with exertion, he walked very briskly down through the ship, praying to god he didn't drop it. Oh the shit he would get if he dropped it.

"That kid better be grateful for this," he muttered as he rammed his shoulder painfully into the elevator button. He missed the first time and had to try three more times before the lift finally arrived. Grateful for the solitude of the elevator, where he could finally give his arms a rest, McCoy waited for the doors to open.

"Good afternoon Doctor McCoy. Which floor do you require?"

McCoy gaped at the Vulcan standing stiffly inside the lift.

"Shit," he said quietly, stepping inside, all hopes of relief gone.

"Level six, of course."

**Author's Post Note:** (in case you didn't get it, a) McCoy is worried the box is full of porno rags [hense his fear of dropping it in front of everyone], and b) spock thought 'shit' was 'six')


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Sorry if the writing quality on this one is subpar, I'm trying to actually get plot done. And...I'm feeling off today. But again, enjoy!

Oh and, even though I've barely ever seen any TOS, I think that the only thing wrong with the new McCoy is that he's not skinny enough. He's supposed to be such a beanpole! So in this story, he still is, haha.

* * *

Kirk had only managed to touch once before the sparring session was over. He had been practicing with Sulu for almost two weeks now, but he still couldn't keep up. Disgruntled, he had retreated to his luxurious captain's bathroom to take a nice hot shower.

Kirk loved this bathroom. It had marble floors, a huge bathtub with a dreamy showerhead with 16 different settings. And plenty of mirrors, which Kirk enjoyed. Of course it would have been nicer if he'd kept it clean. Towels and clothing were strewn about the floor, including, he noticed, some of McCoy's. Kirk had let Bones use his beautiful captain's quarters while he was on the surface mission, and apparently the doctor had taken him up on the offer. Good, thought Kirk as he entered the shower, Bones needed some relaxing luxury in his life.

Steam filled the room and Kirk washed away the sweat from his workout. He totally, utterly relaxed, until a shrill beep came from his comm. Rolling his eyes, Kirk pressed the button and said, "What is it?" irritably.

A timid voice came from the communicator. "Sir, there's an odd disturbance in the energy fields ahead. We…we're not sure what to do."

Kirk sighed. It was the beta shift navigator, a really jumpy guy. Probably spooked by a solar flare or something.

"Ok I'll be right down," he said, feeling cheated. He stepped out of the shower, toweled off and looked around on the ground for his uniform. It wasn't there. He hadn't worn it in of course, he'd been wearing his sparring clothes. He gazed at them, lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. They were sweat-soaked and odorous. With another exasperated sigh, he picked up one of McCoy's much more wearable uniforms, slipped into it (though it was surprisingly tight) and headed as slowly as he could justify towards the bridge.

Taking a short-cut through the rec room, he saw it. Lying on a bench, folded neatly and entirely unguarded, was the capote. Kirk quickly scanned the room for any sign of Sulu. He'd probably gone back to the bridge too, Kirk thought, and forgotten his prize entirely. With a childish glee Kirk tip-toed up to the capote, paused dramatically, then grabbed it and put it on.

"Oh this looks good," he said quietly to himself, eyeing his reflection in the mirror. It looked even better with McCoy's blue shirt than it would have had he been wearing his customary yellow. As he was twirling around in order to make the cape swirl majestically, another beep came from his comm..

He grabbed it from his side and practically yelled, "I'm coming, I'll be right there!"

"Sir," it was Sulu's voice this time. "An enemy ship has just decloaked and is approaching quickly."

Kirk stumbled mid-twirl.

"I'll be right there!" he said, this time sincerely, and dashed up to the bridge as quickly as his odd assortment of clothing would allow.

* * *

McCoy managed to stagger into the medical bay without ever having put down the box. He was distantly proud of himself, but that small glow was overpowered by the intense burn of his arm muscles as he finally dropped the load. It landed with a loud thunk at Chekov's bedside.

Chekov had apparently finished finding the standard deviation of all the ceiling tiles, because he was now fiddling absent-mindedly with a loose end of a bandage on his arm. At McCoy's dramatic arrival, the young Russian looked up.

"Thank you very much sir!" He said enthusiastically, seeing the box on the ground.

"You're welcome," muttered McCoy, trying not to sound too bitter. He rubbed his sore shoulder and looked at the kid uncomfortably.

"I guess I'll…leave you to that then," he said, gesturing meekly at the box. He was curious yes, but also quite sure he knew what the contents were. And he didn't really want to be around to be proven right.

He started to turn back to his office when Chekov called out to him.

"Sir, if it is ok, I would like you to see-"

"No, Chekov, that's really ok," McCoy started, cutting the ensign off. But Chekov was already digging through the contents of the box, and before McCoy could look away, Chekov was brandishing a magazine towards him.

Not a magazine.

A comic book.

McCoy blinked dumbly in the face of an old, somewhat worn issue of Superman. On the cover, the man of steel was wrestling a giant eagle. McCoy could only assume it was an evil eagle.

"That box is just full of comics?" McCoy asked, still uneasy.

"Da, I have very many," Chekov said proudly. With McCoy's help, he lifted the box onto his lap and spilled the contents out over the bed. There were dozens of them, all of them ancient, from the 20th century. There were issues of Batman, Green Lantern, Aquaman, but most of all Superman. They looked very well read; many of them had taped up bindings.

_The kid's a bigger nerd than I thought,_ McCoy thought as Chekov began eagerly describing the characters' various adventures. But he couldn't help but smile at the expression on Chekov's face. It was such a childish excitement, and as he went on about a tale from one of the Superman issues, McCoy thought he saw a shadow of that idolization Chekov had given Kirk.

_Heroes,_ thought McCoy. That's what the kid wanted. Just someone to be his hero.

"So why Superman?" He asked, trying to sound casual. Not that he needed the boy's adoration. Not that he had a snowball's chance in hell of getting it either.

Chekov gave the doctor an almost pitying look.

"Superman is the very best," he stated matter-of-factly. "He is powerful, brave, he can fly…" Chekov listed off these qualities on his fingers.

"And he is moral." He finished, sinking back into the pillows.

McCoy was wondering if he had _any_ of these coveted qualities when the alarm sounded. The emergency lights began flashing slowly, filling the room with an ominous red glow.

"_All personnel prepare for attack. Enemy ship has the Enterprise in tractor beam. Prepare to be boarded. Repeat, prepare to be boarded."_

McCoy stared at the intercom, utterly baffled.

"What the hell-" he turned back to see Chekov growing very pale.

In the noise of the alarm, McCoy had to raise his voice.

"Are you feeling ok, kid?" A quick tricorder scan revealed that Chekov's fever had increased. He looked very uncomfortable, but his eyes were filled with an unnerving determination.

"Doctor, we must report to the bridge!" He said in a strained voice. He made to get out of bed with a grimace, but McCoy was having none of it. Thinking quickly, he jabbed a sedative hypospray in Chekov's slender neck. The ensign had barely managed to sit up before he was on his back again, fast asleep.

McCoy was still confused, but he made sure Chekov's condition would remain stable before dashing up to the bridge to ask Jim what in the God's name was going on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **_Uuuuuugh this chapter is awful. I'm having the worst block. Sorry everybody! I'm hoping it'll be better soon, but no promises :P Wow I sure know how to sell myself._

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* * *

  
_

Kirk pounded on the elevator button repeatedly, hoping that just this once that would make it go faster. Finally the doors opened to reveal the bridge, bustling with activity while a large, menacing ship loomed on the main screen. They were not firing, but they had paralyzed the Enterprise with a very powerful tractor beam.

Kirk raced into the center of the chaotic scene, and yelled out for a status report. All eyes fell on him, and it was a brief, blissful moment before he remembered how ridiculous he looked. Trying to muster an air of authority in a too-tight medical uniform and a matador's cape, Kirk turned to the helm.

"Mr Sulu, what is the status of our mobility?"

Sulu turned around in his chair, opened his mouth to speak, then noticed his captain's apparel.

"You're wearing my capote!" he yelled, all rank forgotten. "Give it-"

"Mr Sulu we have no time for this foolishness," Kirk said quickly, playing the captain card.

Sulu sighed, and begrudgingly gave his report.

"All engines power has been blocked by electromagnetic energy fields. In other words, a tractor beam," he said with a little more sass than Kirk had ever heard from him. "There's no way we're going to be able to get free without locating the direct source of the beam."

"Well can we fire at the ship?" Kirk asked, a little wildly.

"That is inadvisable Captain," Spock said coolly from his station. "This ship is a member of the Tanger armada. Firing upon it would be unwise both politically and strategically. Knowing the Tangerians, it is likely that many more ships are waiting, cloaked, for any resistance from our vessel."

Kirk sat down in his chair at last, staring at the growing threat on the main screen. The Tangers were powerful pirates that often held entire Star Fleet crews for hostage money. He'd read about their tactics; they board the captured ship, kill enough of the crew to induce surrender, then send violent ransom videos to Star Fleet demanding huge sums of money. Kirk's mind was racing with possible plans of action.

"We're going to have to prepare to be boarded," he announced at last. "Mr Sulu, Mr Spock, please ensure that all able bodied men and women aboard this vessel are equipped with a phaser. We'll surround all the entrances, bottleneck them. Mr Evens," he said, addressing the beta navigator, "Announce our course of action if you please."

The booming voice of Evens echoed throughout the halls of the Enterprise, much more intelligible than the chipper and heavily accented voice that usually graced the intercom.

As Evens finished relaying Kirk's instructions, McCoy came storming on the bridge.

"Jim!" He shouted, his voice containing equal parts irritation and nervousness.

"What is going on? What's with the goddamn alarm system?"

Kirk sighed, feeling that he was stretched thin enough already without the doctor on his case. Slowly, with one last glance at the intimidating Tanger ship, he turned his chair to face McCoy.

"It's just like Evens said on the intercom Bones, we're preparing to be boarded by Tangers."

"What in God's name are Tangers?" McCoy demanded, paling slightly.

Kirk gave Spock a pleading look, and the Vulcan obliged by explaining the nature of the cosmic pirates to the doctor while Kirk went back to his job.

"Alright, Sulu, Spock, Bones, you're with me," he said, standing up with determined courage. "We're going to the front lines gentlemen. Scotty," he called into his intercom. "Report to the bridge and take the helm if you will."

"Aye sir, but if they start bangin' her up too badly I'm takin' them down mehself," Scotty replied darkly.

Kirk couldn't help but smile. "No doubt you will Scotty. Kirk out."

With that, the four men entered the lift and prepared for battle.

"Jim, the kid's still in sick bay. He's got a sleeping hypo but-"

"He'll be fine Bones, we're not letting them get to the galley, let alone the sick bay. We're bottle-necking them, soon enough they'll surrender. I guarantee they won't make it 10 yards past the doors." Kirk gave McCoy a cocky grin, but the doctor knew better than to believe it. Jim's appearance of confidence was directly proportional to how scared shitless he was.

They quickly arrived to the 7th level, where a majority of the major entrances to the ship were. On this level were 12 hatches leading into the ship, many dormitories and two science facilities. Dozens of crewmembers were already surrounding the doors, clumping together to form semicircles around the doors with their tasers drawn. They seemed tense, and McCoy privately wondered how much friendly fire was going to erupt as soon as some unlucky yeoman coughs.

"Bones, can you set up a make-shift med bay with a couple nurses in that lab over there?" Kirk pointed to one of the larger science labs, and McCoy nodded curtly, calling nurses to level seven on his comm..

"Sulu, you take exit 7-B, I'll take 7-L and Spock, you take 7-H."

The men separated to their positions. The air was thick with nervous anticipation and the only sounds to be heard were McCoy's occasional swearing as he tried to fit the lab for medical procedures.

Meanwhile, five floors up, sleepy eyes blinked open just enough to notice flashing red lights.

"Keptain?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **_This one is dedicated to the lovely **momiji'sunusedhalo **__for all her lovely reviews and over-all kindness C: Thanks! _

_I wish I was better at making what I imagine appear in type, but here is my best attempt. Watch it become more confusing as my plot gets more convoluted! It's like magic._

_As always suggestions and critique are welcomed wholeheartedly! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!_

_Also, sorry I abuse the whole-line-across thing. I just love it._

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* * *

  
_

McCoy was working furiously but there was a constant steady flow of injured being hauled into his room and only so much he could do. Nurses and other doctors were taking care of a lot of the more superficial injuries, but McCoy was one of the only doctors able to perform major surgeries and tricky operations, and there were far more of those needed than anyone had anticipated.

The poor guy under the doctor's knife now was touch and go. He'd received several enormous gashes on his torso, and many of his organs were failing as McCoy raced to restore them.

"I need some hands over here!" He shouted brusquely without looking up from his work, but there was no response. Every medic was bogged down in the countless casualties and no hands could be spared. Risking a brief glance around the room, McCoy grimaced at the carnage surrounding him. Jim had said it would be simple, he thought bitterly, but it was turning out to be a massacre.

An alarming beep from the life-support system brought McCoy back to his senses. The patient was going down, and with a deep breath, McCoy mustered the last of his adrenaline and operated more quickly and accurately that he had ever before. Within minutes the patient stabilized, his wounds sewn and his organs restored. Almost before he realized it, McCoy had saved the fallen crewmember from near death.

He stepped back and took a swig of water, wiping his brow with his sleeve. His mind felt numb, and all he could do was wonder what it was like outside of the make-shift med bay.

* * *

It was chaos. The bottle-neck plan had been good in theory, but in practice it seemed that the Tangers were fairly prepared for it. Instead of sending troops immediately through the doors as Kirk had bet on, they had sent one guy with a bomb to each entrance, blasting the doorways wider and severely injuring all surrounding crewmembers. The Enterprises numbers had been halved within the first minute, and the Tangers had easily spread throughout the ship.

Kirk had not had a moment of peace since the debacle had begun. He savored the quiet that now seemed to thicken the air in the deserted hallway he was in. The remaining crewmembers had split up to track down the Tanger invaders, who had scattered in search of treasure or hostages, most likely. Kirk was low, crouching and slinking through the hall with his phaser drawn. One of the larger Tangers had come down here and Kirk had been following him, waiting for a time when he would be able to shoot him from afar. But he hadn't seen the brute in a few minutes and was beginning to worry he'd lost him. Kirk wished desperately that he were wearing his own clothing, as Bones' shirt had become even more uncomfortably tight as Kirk perspired. But he hadn't dared remove it, or even shrug off the ridiculous capote still buckled around his neck, for fear of the noise it would make. In fact the matador cloak had come in useful a few times in battle, and he was reluctant to take it off anyway. And of course, it did make him feel pretty bad ass.

A bang from the room just ahead and to his left made Kirk sink down lower. He peered around the corner and saw the giant Tanger in one of the rec rooms, throwing a bin that Kirk knew to be full of kickballs against the wall. Holding his breath, the captain aimed his phaser at the pirate's head. His hands surprisingly steady, he fired.

* * *

One floor above, Chekov was easing himself out of bed. He felt very strange, as if he were in a dream. His mind was cloudy and his limbs felt very heavy. The sleeping hypo had not yet worn off, but something had woken the navigator prematurely and now he shuffled through the sick bay in a haze. He was vaguely aware that something was wrong. The alarm lights that continued to flash had cued him into this fact, but he was entirely unclear as to the nature of the emergency. Besides that he really had to use the bathroom, and so though it was against his better judgment to leave the room, he did so.

The hall outside was very still, unusual for the Enterprise, but he barely noted it. With sleepy eyes and leaden feet he hobbled down the hallway, one hand on the wall as a precaution in case he lost his balance, which seemed a very real possibility. He was still wearing the pale blue floral medical gown and his face was very white.

Chekov wandered for a few minutes, with no real direction. His intent had been to find the bathrooms, but his brain was lagging and he'd forgotten what he was doing. He slowed to a stop in the middle of an two intersecting hallways and looked around, a very confused expression on his young face. He was utterly lost. The Enterprise that he usually knew like the back of his hand seemed alien and labyrinthine to him now. A cold chill ran through him. It was terrifying living in a world where he did not know exactly what was going on, the young Russian had never experienced this kind of mental failure. Sinking down into a sitting position, he waited for someone, anyone to come by and rescue him. But there was no one around.

* * *

Kirk was lying on the ground, blinking out of unconsciousness. It took him a few moments to grasp what had happened, and his memory was a bit generous to him in fact. The way he recalled it, he had shot the Tanger but the damn brute had dodged it at the last second, turned around and thrown a sucker punch right at Kirk's head, knocking him out. The way it actually happened, he had missed entirely and his beating had been drawn out and fairly one-sided. He hadn't stood a chance against the massive pirate who had lumbered over to him once the phaserbeam had struck the wall, and now he was lying in a small pool of blood that was still oozing out of his nose. Picking himself up, the captain assessed the damage; other than a smarting broken nose he seemed to be unharmed. But the Tanger was gone and he was in silence again. Also, he noticed with a jolt of panic, his phaser was smashed. The Tangers fought with primal weaponry, swords and guns and such, and viewed phasers as a kind of cheating. The playing field had been leveled it appeared, now that Kirk had nothing but his fists to fight with. Wiping blood from his face, the captain ran off down the hall, hoping to catch up with the large pirate. He didn't have a clue how he'd stop him, but he'd always been an in-the-moment kind of guy anyway.

* * *

McCoy finally had the chance to take a breather, when the flow of injured had reduced to a trickle and most of the serious cases were taken care of. But then he got a call on his comm..

"Dammit Jim, what's the matter?" He moaned into his communicator, not even looking at the screen.

"Bones, I need you to tell me where the pressure points that kill people are!"

"What the-" McCoy looked down at the tiny video screen, saw Jim's bleeding and obviously broken nose, his desperately determined face, and (noticing it for the first time), one of the doctor's own shirts.

His mind overwhelmed with snarky questions, he threw out the first in the cue.

"What happened to you?"

"I really just need to know how to kill a guy with my bare hands Bones," Jim said irritably. He appeared to be walking very briskly.

Bones sighed and began explaining the vital arteries and their locations. As he did so, he stood up and took a look around the med bay. Everything was under control and all necessary operations had been taken care of.

"Jim, where are you?"

"I'm on the 12th floor, why?"

McCoy did not answer, but shut off his communicator and raced for the lift. Jim wasn't going to take care of himself, so as usual, he would have to.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **_So I am really trying to pump this out and finish before school starts again, and the quality, eh she suffers. But if for some reason any of this makes sense/translated at all from the vision in my head (which was really more a visual story than a written one), I hope you have enjoyed! Probably one more chapter after this one. Also, idk the Russian word for Superman and that probably isn't it, but oh well._

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* * *

  
_

Chekov was curled up on the floor of sector 12-N, in the eerily silent hallway with the alarm lights casting a ghostly light onto his face. He had wandered a bit more, but his drug-induced exhaustion had gotten the better of him, and he'd lay down where he was to sleep. Head resting uncomfortably on his arms, he dreamed of leaping across the darkening Metropolis skyline.

A sudden noise woke him rudely from his sleep. His head snapped up at the clang of metal against metal coming from somewhere down the hall. Staggering to his feet, Chekov wiped a little drool from the corner of his mouth and stumbled forward without grace or much thought. He reached the end of the hall where the clamor was emanating from a room to his left. Peering inside, he spied a giant, hulking man wearing very peculiar clothing, shooting an old-fashioned gun at a locked chest and kicking it repeatedly. Chekov did not know what to make of this, but immediately concluded that this was a very strange dream. It was almost funny, watching the monolithic figure trying in vain to open a container that was plainly labeled "Engineer Dept. Uniforms: Small". Chekov gave a small, spacey laugh, which was unfortunately timed. In the silence between a gunshot and an angry assault on the box, his single 'ha,' could be heard throughout the room. The man looked up.

* * * * *

Kirk was running aimlessly down a hall (he hadn't bothered figuring out which one). He'd heard gunshots somewhere around here and he was desperate to find the source. His heart was pumping fast and he was afraid he'd waste all his adrenaline on the chase. _Boom!_ Another shot, much closer this time. Rounding a corner at dangerous speed, Kirk dashed in the direction of the noise.

Suddenly, at the intersection several yards ahead, a small figure appeared walking backwards slowly. Kirk's heart dropped as he recognized the curly hair, and he pushed himself to run faster. Soon, the massive form of a Tanger appeared as well, gun aimed at the oddly sluggish Russian.

"Shit, shit, no," Kirk muttered breathlessly. He wished he were faster, that the goddamned capote wasn't causing so much drag, that he hadn't screwed up so royally this whole day. With one last impossible burst, he propelled himself forward.

* * * * *

McCoy dashed down the empty halls of floor 12, his eyes on his communicator where a small yellow dot indicated Kirk's location. The dot was moving, but McCoy had taken a few shortcuts and was now on track to intercept the captain head on. He hated running and was already feeling slightly out of breath, when he saw ahead of him a large shadow, much larger than Jim. Slowing to a walk, the doctor quieted his footsteps and drew his phaser. That thing was a Tanger, he was almost sure of it. But McCoy was a doctor, not a soldier, and he wasn't going to fire unless it was self-defense. Crouching down and moving forward slowly, he kept his phaser aimed at the small of the pirate's back, just in case. Then, suddenly, a blur of blue and red leapt in front of the Tanger, and a single, ear-splitting crack of a gun.

* * * * *

The crack of a gun. Chekov's sense of time and space were pretty fuzzy, but he knew that sound when he heard it. He closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling of scalding iron piercing him with immense force. But he must have been very out of it, because it was taking the bullet a very long time to reach him. Reluctantly, he opened one bleary eye, but as soon as he did he could not believe it.

Superman was standing between him and the pirate, his crimson cape flowing majestically around him, and even as Chekov watched, the man of steel took the bullet. Chekov felt a mixture of relief and such intense joy that it made him stumble and he fell into a sitting position on the ground. Ever since he learned to read, he had dreamed of a day when Superman would save him, and here he was in the last place Chekov would have expected him. The young ensign watched in awe as Superman staggered from the impact of the bullet. Then, with a strength that Chekov so often wished he possessed, the hero punched the Tanger in the gut. The Tanger seemed to go rigid for a moment, then toppled, defeated. Chekov smiled vaguely, his brain beginning to fog up again, and lay back peacefully.

"супермен…" he murmured quietly, before closing his eyes entirely, waiting for his hero to fly him someplace safe so he could sleep.

* * *

Jim Kirk was bleeding. There was a nasty bullet wound in his right shoulder, and he still couldn't figure out how he had managed to take out that pirate so easily. His punch had been feeble, a last desperate attempt to stop the hulking thing using a maimed and useless limb. Blood was running down his arm and torso. He winced slightly as he stepped towards the Tanger to check if it was dead.

"Jim!" Kirk looked up to see Bones running towards him, holding in one hand a medic kit and in the other a smoking phaser.

"Are you ok kid? Jesus what were you thinking?" McCoy said angrily, but with obvious relief in his eyes.

"Bones, you shot this guy?"

"Yeah, well he was going to get you if I didn't wasn't he?"

Kirk gave a low whistle, staring at the carcass of the giant pirate.

"Nice job, Bones." He gave the body a slight kick. The doctor was already grabbing Kirk's arm and cleaning the injury fastidiously.

"Oh," Kirk said suddenly, as McCoy extracted the bullet with one of his fancy devices. "Chekov, he was just there," he turned slightly and pointed behind himself, causing the doctor to curse at the movement.

"Damn it Jim, hold still for two seconds!"

Kirk glanced back at Chekov, who was lying on the ground, not moving.

"Bones! Check on Chekov!" Kirk shouted, sounding more alarmed than authoritative. The doctor looked over at the unconscious ensign, cursed again and dashed over to him.

There was a moment of tense silence, while McCoy held his hand to Chekov's wrist, feeling for a pulse. He let out a small sigh, turned to Kirk and announced, "He's fine, Jim."

Kirk smiled, relieved. Finally allowing himself to relax, he slumped down and tried to let his heart to return to normal speed.

McCoy stood, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

"Jim,"

Kirk looked up at the doctor.

"Take off that goddamn cape, you look ridiculous."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **_WOW it's been a long time, I'm sorry everybody. School happened and then nothing else could. But school is over now, thank god! Winter break is here and I could not be more relieved! So I wrapped up this little story, and I hope the ending is satisfying enough. Thanks to everyone who's been reading and giving such kind reviews! I hope you all have wonderful holidays and all!_

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* * *

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How they had actually managed to win the battle with the pirates, no one on the Enterprise knew. There had been severe losses; much of the crew would be out of commission for weeks, and the medbay was overflowing with patients who still needed vigilant care. McCoy had never been so tired in his whole life.

It was late, many hours after the smoky remains of the battle had been cleared away. McCoy was hunched over his desk, his head resting on his arms which were crossed over some paperwork. He was staring with dead eyes at his two most important patients.

He had given Kirk a mild hypo sedative in order to properly clean the gunshot wound (along with the various other injuries the captain had managed to acquire in the fight), and had instructed a fairly giddy nurse to get Kirk out of his ridiculous clothing and into a hospital gown. The red capote had been returned, with some placating apologies, to Sulu, and McCoy's shirt had been tossed into the bin. It was covered in blood and sweat and smelled unpleasantly like Kirk, who actually most often smelled like blood and sweat. Now the captain was asleep in one of the many sick bay beds, right next to the young ensign, who was in an equally deep doze.

The only sound was the soft beep of the life support systems, and it was lulling the doctor to a tempting sleep, although he resisted with all his willpower. At last his eyelids grew too heavy and he lay his head down into the crook of his elbow, intending to close his eyes for just a moment. But really he just wanted to sleep for hours and hours.

Unfortunately he got only a moment.

A familiar groggy moan broke the relative silence of the ward, and instinctually McCoy jerked his head up. It was a familiar scene, and he was filled with a certain sense of déjà vu as he crept over to the young Russian's bed.

"You ok, kid?" he asked quietly, checking Chekov's vitals compulsively.

Chekov rubbed his eyes and yawned, stretching a long arm up into the air. He opened his mouth a little, staring at McCoy with tired, blank blue eyes for a moment. Then, as if in sudden realization, he sat bolt upright, almost knocking McCoy's chart from his hand.

"Superman!" he said, a little too loudly for a midnight sick bay.

"What the hell?" McCoy muttered, trying to get Chekov to lie back down, but to no avail. The young navigator was looking around wildly, and after apparently not finding what he wanted, he looked back at the doctor with a kind of heartbreaking eagerness in his face.

"I saw him!" he said, still too loudly. "He – he came to rescue me! Just like, just like in the comics!" Chekov seemed barely able to keep himself from jumping on the bed. Instead he swung his body sideways, reaching down under his bed and pulling out a comic book at random from the cardboard box. It was a Superman issue; on this cover the man of steel was being held by some kind of energy beam. Chekov pointed violently at the hero on the cover, eyes wide.

"Him!" He said, as if McCoy had never heard of Superman.

The doctor scoffed, a little more than peeved that the excitable teenager wouldn't just sit still. "I think you hit your head pretty hard kid," he said darkly.

But he glanced up at the picture Chekov was brandishing. Superman, the man of steel, dressed all in blue with a long..red..cape.

McCoy sighed, a long, exhausted, defeated sigh. Yet again, Kirk was the hero. And just looking at the bright faith in Chekov's face…well McCoy wasn't going to be the one to destroy that.

"Yeah, I…saw him," McCoy said, forcing the words out with painful effort. "Superman. He, ah…he came to save you. For sure. I was watching."

Chekov beamed, clutching the comic book to his chest as he finally lay back against his pillow.

"Get back to sleep kid, it's been a rough couple days for you," McCoy said, unable to keep the resignation from his voice. So what if he would never be a hero like Kirk or that goddamn Superman. He still saved lives; that was enough when he got into medicine, it should be enough now. Still…

Chekov fell back into a peaceful slumber, and just as McCoy was about to go off and do the same, there was a stirring in the next bed. Kirk was awake, grimacing slightly as he propped himself up.

"Hey Bones," he called out, as McCoy was halfway out the door. The doctor turned around, surprised (and less than happy) to see another patient moving around. Despite McCoy's meek protests, Kirk hauled himself out of bed and shuffled over to his friend, looking oddly frail in his hospital gown.

"You really saved my ass out there," Kirk said quietly. His expression was unusual; McCoy had a hard time reading it. The doctor swallowed, unsure of what to say, but Kirk went on.

"You saved both of us," he rubbed the back of his head in frustration, "Fuck, I didn't know what I was doing, I was just…just being stupid. Again." He looked at Bones with that odd expression again. "Thanks for being there."

It wasn't idolization. It wasn't any kind of hero worship, but McCoy recognized in the Captain's face real, true gratefulness. And relief. And respect.

"Yeah well," he said awkwardly. "Get back to bed then, don't waste my heroic efforts," he gave a small grin, which was returned to him tenfold, and Kirk hobbled back to his bed.

* * *

McCoy collapsed into a real bed for the first time in what felt like a week. His room was bare; he saw no need to put up decorations in a place he spent roughly 3% of his time in. Yet the feeling of a real mattress, real blanket, of sheets beneath him and a pillow, not a desk, under his head gave him a sense of relaxation that he couldn't remember ever having.

If McCoy could have remembered his dream that night, he would have recalled the face of Kirk, still filled with respect that McCoy kind of always desperately wanted, and that of Chekov, so pleased that his hero had saved him, and vaguely the face of his own daughter, who he was determined to earn the respect of even if the idolization was gone. It was a good thing he didn't remember, for the most part. He was also dressed up as Batman throughout the whole thing.

* * *

For days, the talk of the ship was Chekov and Superman. Everyone knew that Chekov believed to have been saved by his caped hero, and most people had made the connection between this fantasy and the bizarre outfit Kirk had been sporting throughout the battle, but no one had the heart to tell the young Russian the truth, not even the captain himself. Still it was the source of some mockery among the yeomen, who poked fun at the navigator behind his back. Whenever McCoy heard this, he would give the perpetrators a few choice words in his best grumpy bastard voice, which scared them senseless and stopped their jokes immediately.

McCoy grinned to himself, watching a few of the disrespectful yeomen scurry in fright at his rebukes. He felt, though he would never admit it, like a kind of superhero these days. To the careless observer he was just mild-mannered Doctor McCoy (mild-mannered may not have been the most accurate description). But he had saved Chekov, was upholding truth and justice (again, perhaps a bit of a stretch), and as far as he was concerned, that made him some kind of hero.

But he would never be caught dead in spandex and a cape.


End file.
